


Everything In Moderation

by bombhanks



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Peterick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombhanks/pseuds/bombhanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mini-fic, Patrick shows up at Pete's house late one night, drunk and beat up. Basically Pete takes cares of Patrick and yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything In Moderation

**Author's Note:**

> I originally intended this to be much shorter but it turned out to have a longer plot than i thought it would lol also i dint have anyone read over this for spelling/grammar errors but i tried to my best with those so sorry about any mistakes! anyway i hope you enjoyed reading this and i always love getting feedback!! uwu

There is a banging on Pete's door, the hard thud of an out of control fist against chipping wood. Pete stares at the door, conflicted as to whether he should open it, or let the knocker reveal themselves first.

"Pete, open tha-fuck-up," says a deep voice. The last words of the demand are rushed, sounding like one massive, foreign term. More thuds.

"Pete! Wentz! Fucking hell man, lemme in!"

Pete chuckles. He knows the voice, knows it so well he could answer it in his sleep. Now that he's aware of his visitor, Pete decides to have a little fun with him.

"Hey, dickwad, open your god damn door or I swear to God –“

"Woah, Patrick, chill out." Pete opens the door with a swing, grinning from ear to ear. His smile falters, however, at the messy sight that greets him.

From the way Patrick's words came quick and slurred, Pete was already aware that Patrick was drunk. And from the belch he let out after 'dickwad', Patrick was, in fact, wasted. What truly troubled Pete, unable to go without notice even in the darkness of the twilight, was the thick stain of blood running from Patrick's nose. Not only this, but his left eye was swollen shut, discolored so dark that it looked black in the night's shadow. His lower lip had a cut as well, but only a thin trickle of scarlet liquid ran from that wound, stopping shortly at his chin.

Pete couldn't find words. He felt them flooding from his brain to his mouth, spilling down his throat, choking him to a point of inaudible mouthing. Patrick’s right eye swam, bright and blue from the gleam of the hallway light. His hoodie was torn in various places, and dark stains speckled the gray material; Pete was unsure of whether that was Patrick's blood, or someone else's.

Patrick smacked his lips. "Well," he said. "I ran into a little spot of trouble." A laugh belted from his stomach, blowing a gust of foul breath in Pete's face. His nose wrinkled; whiskey had certainly been a factor in the night's apparent violence.

"Get inside," Pete finally manages demand, his voice deadened. Patrick takes a step forward, and his other leg shakes as he tries to bring it up. Pete immediately throws an arm around Patrick, who winces at the firm grip on his shoulder. Patrick slips his arm around Pete's waste, tightening his hold for support.

"I'm surprised you made it up the fucking stairs," Pete mutters. They're making slow progress into the living room, Patrick's feet almost dragging. He giggles, and Pete's stomach twists at the vile stench of hard liquor.

"It was a struggle," Patrick grins. "Fell couple times."

"Mmm," Pete responds. They arrive at the couch, Pete gently lowering his drunken friend onto the leather cushion. "Stay here, okay? I swear to God if you move I'll –“

"Beat me up? Sock me in da eye? You're a little late for that, jackass," Patrick raises an arm at Pete, not pointing any fingers - apparently throwing it in the air out of disoriented defiance.

Pete rolls his eyes, turning and striding toward the kitchen. He grabs a wash cloth from the counter, running warm water over it. Putting a hand against his forehead, Pete digs his nails into the flesh of his face, scrambling to remember any other medical precautions that need to be taken.  

Deciding he can figure it out in a minute, after he's cleaned Patrick up a little, he turns back to the living room. Patrick is slumped against the sofa, breathing deeply. His stomach rises and falls, and as Pete draws near him, he notices beads of sweat glistening on Patrick's sideburns.

"No hat?" Pete questions, relaxing down next to Patrick.

"Stole it," Patrick grumbles. Both eyes are shut, his forehead creasing at the memory of losing the baseball cap he'd set out in the Chicago night with.

"Who? Who took it?" Pete inquires, keeping his voice light and casual. He's afraid talking about what he's almost positive was a fight might trigger Patrick's defensive side. Although Patrick is a pretty much euphoric drunk, kind and giggly throughout the entire ride, there is a chance you might say something to piss him off, and the sudden angry demeanor he slips into is something no one wants to mess around with. At that point of the night, anyone who knows drunk Patrick will drift off, letting him sit and stew in silence for a while until he re-emerges, jubilant once again.

"Fucking douches," he replies, swinging his head to the left as though there are two Pete’s next to him. Pete dabs at the blood stain above Patrick's lips, gently wiping the red smear, allowing the wet rag to soak up the fluid. Patrick's upper lip progressively returns to its normal pallid hue, excluding the few flecks of blood that had dried to the flesh. Pete assumes they'll be washed away after Patrick showers tomorrow, which will be a definite necessity - he can already feel the massive forthcoming hangover.

“Yeah, but like, do you know they’re names?” Pete lowers the damp cloth to Patrick’s chin, lightly grasping his jaw with the other hand. As he dabs, Pete stares at the bridge of Patrick’s nose, attempting to detect any signs of broken bone. All appears fine; the punch that was delivered must not have been strong enough to bring about any serious damage, and perhaps the worst Patrick will feel in that area of his face tomorrow will be a colorful bruise.

“Nuh uh,” Patrick answers, wetting his lips sloppily. His tongue lolls out of his mouth for moment, grazing Pete’s knuckles as he cleans the bloody chin. Pete swallows, pretending like he didn’t feel the wet pass of a Patrick’s tongue on his hand. However, he doesn’t make any motion to wipe the trail of spit from his skin.

“Fine. I’ll ask you again tomorrow, and you better remember it, man, cause I wanna give these guys a fuckin’ piece of my mind.” He pauses, eyeing Patrick warily. “I can’t think of anything you’d do to provoke these assholes…”  Pete raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch pillow. The majority of the blood has been erased from Patrick’s face, and only a faint shade of pink is left on the affected flesh.

Patrick shrugs happily, apparently unaware of any and all pain in his body. He lifts a hand to his swollen eye, gently prodding at the inky skin. “Ouch.” He mutters, frowning at Pete. “Where’d tha’ come from?”

Pete sighs heavily, rising to his feet. He aims his arm back, throwing the rag into the sink across the room. It lands in the metal basin with a splat. “When was the last time you had some water?” he questions.

“Dunno.” Patrick replies. Pete notices he’s starting to slide down the length of the couch, slowly but surely resting his body on the cushions. He presses his face against the pillow, shutting his eyes once again.

Pete returns to the sofa with a glass of water in his hand, not too cold so Patrick doesn’t spit it out.  “Hey,” he says, calling for Patrick’s attention.

“What?” Patrick grumbles. His voice carries a hint of annoyance; apparently he’s found a comfortable position, and intends to slip into a much needed unconsciousness.

“Water, for the headache that’ll soon be killing you,” Pete holds the glass out, inches from Patrick’s face.  

“Don’t need it, Patrick breathes out his refusal, his lashes fluttering softly.

“Suit yourself.” Pete sets the water on the coffee table, in case Patrick wakes up thirsty in the middle of the night. He scratches his head, examining Patrick’s curled up body.

“You can take my bed, man. I know this couch isn’t the best sleeping arrangement…” his proposal drops off, hanging in the air. A thick silence forms between them, so dense it’s almost tangible. Pete wants to reach out and slice it in half, and just get a fucking reply from Patrick, anything to know he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning or some scary shit.

The thought of this dangerous intoxication worries Pete, and he crouches down so that his face is level with Patrick’s. Reaching out a hand, he pokes Patrick’s cheek, triggering a noise of disgruntlement.

“Wha’?” Patrick says, opening his good eye. He glares at Pete, the slit of blue obviously yearning for sleep.

“Can I move you over to my room? You’re body’s gonna be sore as hell tomorrow, and sleeping on this lumpy-ass couch won’t do you any good.”

Patrick swallows thickly. “Whatever.” His voice is faint, subdued by the grasp of sleep, and by the time he’s in Pete’s arms on their way to the bedroom, a faint snore sounds from Patrick’s nose.

Bending low, Pete balances Patrick on a lifted thigh, keeping his arm tightly curled around his body while he tosses the covers aside. With the mattress clear, Pete lays his slumbering friend down, pulling the covers up to his collar bone. He then walks back to the living room, retrieving the glass of water and setting it on the night stand. A thought occurs to Pete, and he snaps his fingers – if Patrick wakes up in the middle of the night, he’ll most likely have a terrible head ache, or at least a serious case of nausea. Pete drifts into the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom, shutting the door before turning on the light.

“Headaches, headaches…” Pete mumbles mindlessly as he searches through his medicine cabinet, sifting through the sea of small boxes full of colorful pills and tablets. “Aha!” he says to himself, rejoicing. In his hand is a blue box with the title ‘Aleve’ spread across in block letters. He pops one of the azure pills out of its plastic encasing, turning off the bathroom light before re-entering the bedroom. He places the pill next to the glass of water, eyeing over Patrick again to make sure his breathing is steady and even, that no wounds have opened up again.

Pete rubs his eyes with his palms in deep, circular motions. Exhaustion seems to be pulling at his limbs, dragging him into dormancy. Pete turns off the light, shutting the door to his room with a soft click. Stumbling over to the couch, he yawns, flopping onto the cushions resolutely. The silence and darkness is enough to put him to sleep instantaneously; the cold touch of the leather is almost comfortable, and Pete curls his legs up under his thighs, drifting to sleep in a state of tranquility. He can’t remember the last time Patrick spent the night at his house.

***

Pete hushes the coffee machine, begging it to be quiet, to please not wake up Patrick. The steaming liquid fills a white mug, chipped on the handle, and Pete splashes in some half and half. A spoonful of sugar follows the cream, and Pete stirs the golden brown drink as he strolls to his bedroom. Upon opening the door, he finds – well, no Patrick. Of course, Patrick is still in his bed, wrapped in a cocoon of sheets and covers, so that only a shock of blonde, wispy hair is in sight. Pete laughs to himself, making sure to keep the noise level to a minimum – this is the way Patrick has been sleeping since their first big US tour. Patrick was having trouble sleeping the first week of the tour, unable to find a comfortable position in the cramped space of his bunk – until one morning, on their first day off, the guys shoved Patrick’s curtain aside at 11 am to find him snoring away, caterpillar-like in his cocoon of thin sheets. The only thing that woke him up was Andy pounding away on his mini-kit, crash symbols and everything.

“Hey, man,” Pete says, jiggling Patrick by the upper arm. The aroma of the coffee is strong, swirling up in gray tendrils from the mug. After some more shaking, and more mumbles of encouragement from Pete, Patrick is drawn from sleep with a groan. He buries his head into the pillow, making a low guttural noise of agitation.

“Mother of God,” he moans, his voice rasping slightly. Pete chuckles, although feeling a pang of sympathy; Patrick usually has the worst hangovers, as he drinks the worst liquor. “I think you just woke me from the afterlife,” Patrick says into his pillow.

“And why’s that?” Pete asks, smiling coyly.

“Because I feel like a _fucking_ zombie. But, like, a conscious zombie, one that actually feels pain and sickness and shit.” Patrick spreads both his arms wide, bending the fingers in and out. He rolls his shoulders, popping noises echoing with each twist.

“I made you coffee, so that should help.” Pete glances at the night stand. “I see you found the Aleve alright?”

“Yeah, dude, thank you so fucking much for that, I don’t think I’d have gotten back to sleep if you hadn’t left it there.” Patrick finally sits up, unraveling himself from the sheets. He spreads his legs in a V-shape, hanging his head down toward his lap.

Pete sits on the corner of the bed, gazing at the disheveled Patrick. He purses his lips, going ahead and asking the question that’s been on his mind all morning.

“Patrick,” – he glances up, meeting Pete’s somber eyes – “What the hell happened last night?”

Patrick shakes his head, blowing out air slowly. He reaches up and begins to rub his forehead, in an action that Pete thinks is to hide himself from any judgment. “I think I remember up until about midnight. Past that I’ve got nothing. I just remember feeling kinda shitty – I’d been working on some new music, just screwing around with the guitar, trying out some lyrics – nothing was working right, everything sounded like a fucking dying cat, and I just got frustrated. I didn’t really know what else to do, so I just grabbed my hoodie and left. I wound up in some dingy bar, and after like twenty minutes I was already wasted.” Patrick swallows, his fingers pressing into his temple. Pete wants to reach out and detach Patrick’s hands, place them in his own so Patrick will stop squeezing so fucking hard; he knows that’s got to be hurting, and the idea of that is making him sick.

“I – I think I hit on these dudes’ girlfriends? I know there were two girls next to me – God, I can’t even remember what they looked like – blondes, maybe? Anyway, I remember giving them some really cheesy lines – they laughed, said something about my sideburns – I mean, really, who fucking doesn’t at this point. Anyway, I guess we were getting too friendly – maybe we were all just too drunk – I bought them both some shots, not to get them drunker, I just thought I’d help them have a good time – and next thing I know there’s hands on my shoulders and I’m being shoved outside. I can’t remember what they did to me, but I know they looked like fucking NFL players. Shit, they probably were.”

“What’s funny is those two douche bags had no idea that you would never hit on a girl if you knew she wasn’t single – hell, you wouldn’t hit on a girl _period_. You don’t have the balls for it, even when you’re drunk off your ass.” Pete grins at Patrick, and the jest manages to spread a diminutive smile on Patrick’s lips.

“Somehow my no-balls attitude still manages to get me into trouble, huh?”

Patrick and Pete chuckle together, their voices catching in their throats. This isn’t the first time Patrick’s been beaten up for being pleasant with women, even though his intentions are almost never sexual; the only time Pete’s ever seen Patrick really hit on a girl was about a year back at some new local club, where Patrick was so drunk that he couldn’t even say the line right. He approached the dancing girl in her tight black dress, whispering something into her ear, then getting smacked across the face. The guys found out a few minutes later after asking the girl what he’d said that Patrick had asked her: “Would you wanna….go back my place… fuck?”

“Hey, drink your coffee, dude; the hangover won’t get any better without it.”

Patrick nods, leaning over and grasping the mug. After swallowing a large gulp, he says to Pete, “You know, it’s really not that bad. I dunno, I guess waking up and taking that medicine with the water kind of took care of the brunt of the hangover. I just feel really fatigued, but the nausea isn’t so bad.”

“Well, shit, man, I’m a god damn genius.” Pete grins into his lap, rubbing the back of his head.

“Really, though, Pete; I don’t know why the fuck I dragged myself all the way over here, but – thank you for taking care of me, man. I know I’m a drunk pain in the ass, so… thanks.” Patrick glances sheepishly at Pete, although there is earnest in his eyes.

It takes Pete a moment to respond. Things haven’t been all that serious between him and Patrick lately; off tour, they’ve both been busy with their own lives, and their bond isn’t as strong as it normally is. Pete feels a sudden burst of affection for his best friend, and apparently Patrick does as well, for they both lean in for a hug at the same time. They laugh into one another’s necks, relishing in the fact that their minds still tend to work in sync.

Pete is the first to pull away, but Patrick’s hands linger on his body, drifting down to his biceps. His eyes are taking in Pete’s tattoos, darting around the ink like he’s never seen it before. Pete is a little confused, but doesn’t say anything; he misses hugging Patrick, he misses bonding, he misses the taste of Patrick’s scrambled eggs, made specially for Pete after a night of drinking and movie-watching.

Reminiscing in nostalgia, Pete doesn’t even see it coming – doesn’t notice Patrick’s sudden intake of breath, the swift dip of his head – but he sure as hell doesn’t draw away when Patrick places his lips on Pete’s.

They’re still for a few seconds, noses touching. Patrick’s tousled hair brushes against Pete’s forehead, and it’s soft as cotton candy. He feels like melting into Patrick’s mouth, diving down his throat and never coming out; Patrick is warmth, Patrick is safety, but for right now he’ll have to settle for Patrick’s tongue slipping into his mouth.

Things move at a surprisingly fast pace from there on out. Breathing heavily, they move closer to one another, Patrick actually lifting Pete onto his lap. His legs wrap around Patrick’s waist, and the material of his jeans is satisfyingly rough against his erection. Beneath him, Pete can feel that Patrick is hard as well, and he makes grinding motions with his hips as his tongue dives into Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick’s hands are roving through Pete’s hair, completely disregarding the thick texture. Their kiss deepens, both tongues meeting and twisting around in a haze of wet heat, and suddenly Patrick is kissing his way across Pete’s jawline. Pete sighs in content, leaning his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder; he feels something unusual on Patrick’s lips, and frowns slightly when he realizes it’s the cut he received from last night. However, this concern is washed from Pete’s mind when Patrick’s tongue licks at his neck and his lips suction against the skin, the warm pressure causing Pete’s eyes to roll his into his head. After sucking around the lower neck for a few moments, Patrick nibbles Pete’s collar bone, drawing a high-pitched noise from his throat.

In a burst of sexual frustration, Pete is tearing Patrick’s shirt off, tossing it to the floor before unbuttoning his jeans. Patrick grabs onto Pete’s back and they slowly lower Patrick down, their lips locked in a kiss as they move. Its Pete’s turn to place kisses down Patrick’s jaw, along the soft flesh of his necks, pausing a moment to suck the skin in the hopes of leaving a hickey. When Pete starts kissing down Patrick’s chest, dipping his tongue into his navel, Patrick lets out a loud moan, squirming beneath Pete. He smiles into Patrick’s stomach, biting at the hem of his underwear while he works the zipper down. His tongue swirling against Patrick’s lower abdomen, Pete drags the jeans from Patrick’s legs. All that’s left is the underwear; Pete playfully snaps the hem on Patrick’s hips, grazing Patrick’s bulge with the other hand. At his touch, Patrick lets out an even louder moan, this time bucking his hips up, and Pete decides it’s time to remove the underwear.

Patrick’s cock bursts from his underwear once Pete’s slides it off his legs, and Pete immediately feels Patrick tense up once the article of clothing is completely removed from his body, and he is left bare and exposed. Pete nuzzles his head into Patrick’s belly, placing kisses on the soft flesh again while he draws his hand up Patrick’s thigh. He brushes his fingers against Patrick’s balls as he loosely grabs the shaft, feeling Patrick shudder in pleasure. Pete works his hand slowly at first, spitting into his palm before he picks up speed. Patrick begins to mew, and Pete watches his eyes squeeze shut as he pumps his fist faster. Lowering his head a few inches, he breaths over the head of Patrick’s cock before wrapping his lips around it; Patrick jolts, the head bumping to the roof of Pete’s mouth.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes quickly, opening his eyes and glancing down at Pete, who winks at him. Patrick sighs pleasantly, letting his head fall back to the pillow. Pete’s head bobs up and down, taking Patrick’s dick in fully before rising to the head again, and Patrick’s breathing starts to quicken.

“Pete,” Patrick gasps, and by the sound of it, Pete’s sure he’s close to coming. He traces his fingers around Patrick’s balls, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks. Patrick groans, cursing loudly before repeating Pete’s name.

“Hmm?” Pete hums, the vibrations from this response apparently very pleasuring to Patrick, who’s mouth opens inaudibly.

“F- Fuck,” he stammers. He wets his lips, reasserting himself, and chokes out: “Fuck me, Pete.”

Pete’s lips stop on Patrick’s head, his tongue mid-swirl. “What?” he says, so shocked at Patrick’s bold request that he doesn’t even comprehend what Patrick asked.

“Fuck me.” Patrick says again. This time he meets Pete’s eyes, and they look at each other for a moment before Pete swallows and nods quickly. His cock is burning with the ache to be touched, and he races over to the night stand, pulling out the drawer and digging around for a few seconds before his hand connects with the tube of lube. Snatching a condom from the drawer, he darts back to the bed, stretching the contraceptive over his erection. Patrick motions with his hands for Pete to draw up to him, and they kiss again, Patrick’s tongue deep in Pete’s mouth. Pete moans into the kiss, rubbing the lube hurriedly on his dick.

“Slow, Pete,” Patrick whispers against his lips. His hand catches Pete’s wrist and together they finish the job at a slower pace. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” Patrick’s voice is soft and sensual, and Pete can’t help but dive in for another kiss, their heads swiveling in unison while their tongues meet and tangle around one another.

Pete opens his eyes while he leans back, settling himself between Patrick’s spread legs. He looks up at Patrick, and his grin falters when he notices Patrick’s black eye. Somehow in the rush of sexual desire he’d neglected to notice the bruised skin, but he can’t seem to ignore it now.

“Are you feeling okay? Like – does anything hurt?” Pete asks, his brow furrowed. He purses his lips in concentration, presently exploring the mental question of whether or not he should go searching around his bathroom for more medical supplies.

“I’m ﬁne, Pete,” Patrick soothes. He doesn’t look ﬁne, however; the bridge of his nose is a purplish shade, and although he can open his left eye, it’s still severely puffy and discolored. Going against his paternal instinct, Pete decides to leave the subject of Patrick’s well-being alone; he offers a warm smile, which Patrick returns.

Going off Patrick’s encouragement to take things slowly - although Pete doesn’t see how fucking on his bed after last night’s events counts as doing things in moderation - he takes heed of the request. Sliding up Patrick’s body, Pete presses against him, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. He spends copious time on Patrick’s neck, softly kissing for some moments, sucking hard and passionately for others. He descends Patrick’s chest, licking at each nipple before trailing kisses down to his navel. Here he rests, dipping his tongue into Patrick’s belly button while tracing his ﬁngers up and down Patrick’s arms. Patrick makes small, kitten-like noises, writhing under Pete’s mouth.

Pete kisses his way to Patrick’s erection, swirling his tongue around the head before detaching his lips and leaning back on his heels. “Are you ready?” Patrick nods, holding Pete’s stare. They are silent together, and Pete crawls his way above Patrick, placing his pelvis between Patrick’s legs. As he kisses Patrick, he puts a ﬁnger inside him, bringing an intake of breath to Patrick’s lips. Pausing momentarily, Pete places his lips back on Patrick’s, working his ﬁnger in and out. Once he feels Patrick relax, he allows another ﬁnger in. Patrick surprises Pete this time by reaching a hand up and grabbing the back of his neck, deepening their kiss by the pressure on Pete’s neck. He groans into Pete’s mouth, and after working his ﬁngers a little longer, Pete pulls them out. He moves his kisses down to the crook of Patrick’s neck, making slurping noises as he sucks. Placing his hands on either side of Patrick, Pete enters him slowly, earning a gasp from both their mouths.

The initial thrusts are slow and gentle, Pete wanting Patrick to be comfortable with the feeling of being inside him. Soon he starts to feel Patrick meeting his thrusts, rocking his hips in a way that looks so fucking hot from where Pete is that he decides it’s time to pick up the pace. They start to grunt together as Pete’s thrusts come faster and harder. Patrick’s hips are bucking wildly, and he’s moaning in Pete’s ear without stop.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, which Pete grins at; they both felt it, Patrick gaining more physical pleasure than Pete as his cock hits Patrick’s prostate.

“Fucking ﬁnally,” Pete grunts, which they both chuckle at. Patrick pulls Pete to his lips, and they exchange a brief kiss; this time Patrick bites at Pete’s lower lip, tugging for a moment before releasing it.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Pete breathes out. Patrick giggles in response, and Pete resumes thrusting, compensating the roughness by kissing Patrick’s chest softly. Somewhat subconsciously, Pete reaches down and wraps his hand around Patrick’s cock. Patrick gasps at his touch, and Pete smiles as he works his hand up and down. He licks at Patrick’s chest, the beads of sweat putting a salty taste in his mouth.

The combination of Pete thrusting harder, hitting the prostate each time, and his hand pumping Patrick’s cock is apparently too much for Patrick to handle.

“Pete – Pete –“ he pants, his face scrunched up in pleasure. “ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna - I’m - I’m coming, I’m coming - “ Patrick’s mouth hangs agape, but no noises escape it. His back arches in pure euphoria, and Pete climaxes just as Patrick ﬁnishes, letting out a ﬁnal groan of pleasure. He collapses on Patrick, breathing heavily. They lay there in the quiet aftermath, their chests rising and falling in unison. Patrick wraps his arms around Pete’s thin torso, trailing his ﬁngers up and down the bony spine. Pete sighs happily into Patrick’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat; the bitter aroma of cum. Patrick kisses the top of Pete’s head, his expression blissful.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his voice deep and genuine.

“You are,” Pete counters teasingly, resting his chin on Patrick, their eyes meeting as a radiant smile spreads across Patrick’s face.

“I must look pretty punk, huh? Bruises and all?” Patrick grins slyly at Pete, who rolls his eyes.

“Sure, Patrick, you get the living shit kicked out of you and all that’s on your mind is whether you look cool or not.”

“Fuck that, Pete, I know I look like hell. The only thoughts I have on my current physical situation is how _you_ think I look.”

Pete looks away from Patrick, his heart burning with the urge to shower Patrick in compliments. Instead, he mumbles out, “Those are some troubled thoughts, man.” Pete nuzzles against Patrick, contended with the warmth of his breast bone. “And you’ve got the self-esteem to match.”

Patrick’s arms tighten around Pete, securing the safety of their co-existence. “What a catch.” 


End file.
